A stone heart
smeared vermilion,
wreathed
in fading shards of light
does not beat,
cannot cry
for the subjugated summer sun
kneeling in submission
to the scythe
of an Autumnal equinox.

Lifeless eyes,
brushed a blazing shade of blue,
endless skies
unmarred by storm clouds,
stare back
with the vacancy
of a frozen King,
a motionless marble memory
sculpted
by flesh and blood,
a man
as meaningless to the stone
as the brush
may be to the canvas.

Fragile fingers fold,
dry lips spilling pain
from
the growing void
beneath the ribs,
weak whispers
beg
for absolution from the agony,
but cannot conceive
blood from the stone,
finding only
macculated silence.

A sculptor swings a sledge,
crushing hope,
flakes of dust and stone,
all red and blue,
reveal
an empty chamber,
a dead space
haunted
by the fracture
of faith.
Your name
etched in a single stone
amongst the many
can no more
reveal the awful face of God
than the flightless bird-men
carved
of cracked, white stone
standing guard,
yet unmoved
by the love
and misery
transforming feelings
to phantoms.